The Daedric Game
by Rickard Steiner
Summary: The Daedra Lords find themselves in a tight spot as three of their brethren pull a fast one!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: My first Oblivion piece for Fanfiction. Feedback and positive criticism would be appreciated. Please note that the story itself is non-canonical to what actually happens in the Elder Scrolls series, though I have tried to be as accurate as I can with the historical background and other important 'facts.' Enjoy!**

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Chapter One.

"I found this creature lost down row nine million four hundred and thirty thousand and eighty three, my Lord."

Hermaeus Mora replaced the large, black-bound volume in its place on the bookshelf and his many-eyed gaze turned to meet the newcomers. Before him stood his manservant, Narkke. Hermaeus Mora had more than postulated for decades that, if another dremora were to comment on Narkke's condition, it would be something along the lines of time not being kind to him, except it would be delivered in a much less polite, and much more blunt a manner; dremora weren't tactful conversationalists to start off with, let alone to an old deserter. Dremora were short-tempered, but one thing they that they had mastered over the centuries was how to hold a grudge.

Narkke was old, very old. His red skin was pockmarked and oddly faded in places and, unusually for a dremora, soft; probably related to the fact that it had not felt the oppressing heat and parching winds of Mehrunes Dagon's Deadlands in millennia. He was also incredibly gaunt, almost skeletal in appearance, though that was only going by his face, for Narkke almost uniformly wore a crimson, loose-fitting robe which hid his emaciated form. However, he had a presence about him which Hermaeus Mora found intriguing, almost energising to be in. He always stood imposingly upright, usually with his hands clasped within the folds of his robe's sleeves, and he sported a wispy but shockingly white and long beard, which only just about avoided touching the floor.

Then there were the horns. Apart from the beard, Narkke was completely bald, which gave plenty of room to show off the two three inch horns which jutted proudly from just above his brow, having been carefully kept in astonishing condition all these years. To cap it all, however, were the wizened servant's eyes; though sunken, they still burned fiercely with all the fire and vigour of younger years, and also, with the white hot, purging flames of magicka long confined to Apocrypha, Hermaeus Mora's realm.

Perhaps Hermaeus found it fascinating because, Daedric Prince that he was, he did not command the same kind of presence, being, as Malacath had once unflatteringly described him, 'a twenty metre-high sack of green flesh, tentacles, eyes and claws.'

"_That may well be,"_ he had responded at the time, having already prepared a comeback knowing full well that the churlish brute that was Malacath would come out with something like that, _"but at least I'm a _real _Daedra Prince." _'Hit 'em where it hurts' was one Hermaeus Mora's favourite mortal sayings, and though all of the Daedric Princes were only a tiny step away from being completely invincible, their pride was always a soft spot, especially with Malacath.

Hermaeus Mora's eyed widened momentarily when he saw their guest. For a Daedra who was supposed to know everything past, present and future, he was always prone to being surprised, unless he had looked up the particular occurrence within the last few years. In fact, Hermaeus Mora couldn't recall much about the present or near future, and decided that after this, he had better go and refresh his memory by doing a bit of scrying.

The creature in front of him came in the form of an incredibly scantily clad and…well endowed…woman, not that any of those facts made any impact whatsoever on Hermaeus Mora. Her graceful facial features and dangerous, crimson-lined smile were framed in long, black curls, and her eyes…_"what is it with me and eyes?"_ thought Hermaeus Mora…again seemed to glow with some unnatural light. Most importantly though, was an item that she was wearing, a pendant that hung by a mithril chain about her slender neck, Sanguine's Daedric symbol.

"Lord Herma…" the seducer began, before immediately being cut short by Hermaeus Mora.

"You will speak when I say you can speak!" Hermaeus Mora boomed in his messy, guttural tones. "You come to Apocrypha unannounced and falsely inform my manservant that you are lost. You could have flown back to the exit portal, witch!"

Hermaeus Mora knew exactly why the seducer had lied, and as such was not angry per se, he just liked to appear grouchy, though contrary to his expectations, he noticed the seducer's smile widen slightly. He had given instructions not to be disturbed for at least another month, so official visitors and messengers would have had to wait. This way, she had, very basically, but cleverly manipulated Narkke to bring her to the Daedric Prince.

"Now…speak!"

"Lord Hermaeus Mora," the seducer began again unperturbed, "my Lord Sanguine sends his highest regards, and presents you with this." The messenger made an artful gesture with both hands, and in a flash of rose-coloured light, a rolled up parchment scroll appeared before her. With one of his smaller claws, Hermaeus Mora seized it deftly and was just about to open it when he froze with a sudden jolt of suspicion.

"I'm no fool, witch! What is this, another of your Lord's pranks? By Azura, if it's anything like the last one, I'll drown him in his own skooma personally!"

"I cannot be sure my Lord, I am not privy to the knowledge held in the message. However, I have also delivered similar letters to the Princes Vaermina and Hircine to no complaint."

"_Vaermina and Hircine? Now that's interesting."_ Both of those Princes were vastly different to himself, though both equally dark in their machinations. They were both, as all Daedra are, dangerous, and Hermaeus Mora thought that even Sanguine, revelling fool that he was, would not risk the ire of more than one Daedric Prince at a time. However, since both of them, though particularly Hircine as he had a knack for noticing things, had not had difficulties with their scrolls, Hermaeus was cautiously satisfied.

"Alright then. I will open this message from your master in my own time." The Daedric Prince gestured simply but authoritatively with a single claw, drawing a perfectly straight line in mid-air, about twenty metres up, and in under a second it had expanded into a brilliant, glowing door.

"It is high time that you left…and if I ever catch you prowling around my halls again, your master will soon know my displeasure. Be gone!

Without hesitation, save for a bow which Hermaeus knew was less than sincere, the seducer transformed, her clothing vanishing, not that it made much difference, and large, membranous wings sprouted from her back, and, after flexing them and testing them once or twice, she flew up through the door and was gone.

"I ask you, Narkke, what kind of being, mortal or immortal, falls for that kind of skimpy cheapness?" Of course, Hermaeus Mora knew almost every past instance of it, but that was beside the point, the question was purely rhetorical, and Narkke gave no response but a disapproving shake of his head. Then, after a brief pause, he opened his mouth to speak.

"Forgive me Master," Narkke spoke, his once harsh, grating bark reduced to a shade of its former self, "I knew what she was up to the moment I saw her, but I was not about to leave a servant of Sanguine alone for a moment longer in the library."

"You handled it sufficiently," replied Hermaeus. "No harm done…yet; first I should see to this." With those words he held up the scroll in his claw, waving it slightly to draw attention to it. Then, the Daedric Prince, still slightly unconvinced at the seemingly innocent nature of the parchment. It seemed perfectly mundane to Hermaeus; there was no telltale aura of an enchantment, and the parchment was just that: parchment, though it smelled of some faux exotic, and entirely overbearing perfume. After inspecting it a few times, the Daedric Prince decided that it was safe enough to open without the usual customary telekinesis spells, and, with a second claw, untied the crimson ribbon that held it closed and unrolled it. There, written in alternate gold and sparkly crimson ink, were the following words:

_To the most esteemed Daedric Prince Hermaeus Mora, Lord of Apocrypha, Demon of Knowledge._

_The Lord Sanguine, Master of Passions, Lord of the ten times ten thousand realms, in conjunction with the Lords Sheogorath and Clavicus Vile bid you welcome to a party held in the realm of _Sweetpunch_ in three days time._

_We hope to see you soon._

"Sanguine, Sheogorath and Clavicus Vile…" Hermaeus spoke aloud, with a hint of incredulousness tingeing his voice. Any one of those names was enough to arouse suspicion at it's mentioning. Having them all rolled into one was bound to have explosive results, and Hermaeus wasn't sure that he wanted to be there when that happened.

Daedric Princes rarely ever allied themselves with one another, and this joint venture between the three could only have come about around something very big and very important. As much as all of them were 'bouncy' characters, known for their eccentricities, and as much as this gathering was billed as a 'party' Hermaeus Mora, even without scrying the future, could see the undercurrent of something more sinister at work, and as such, as much as he loathed the thought of going, he forced himself to accept the invitation.

"Narkke, fetch me my crystals."

If he was going to go, the Daedric Prince vowed that at least he wasn't going to go unprepared. He was, after all Hermaeus Mora, the one being in existence…well, NOW the only being in existence…who could truly be ahead of the game, and knowing the Daedric Princes involved, this _was_ going to be a game; a very dangerous game.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I should have mentioned this before, this story is set many years before the occurence of Oblivion. Different Emperor, different Council, and before slavery has been banned in Morrowind. Feedback as always would be lovely. My apologies for not churning out writing at a faster pace. Enjoy!**

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Chapter 2.

_Meanwhile, in another place entirely…_

"Well young Septim, it's good to be home!"

General Severus Flaccus and Prince Octavius Septim rode their horses together at a brisk canter across the bridge leading to the Imperial City, with their personal bodyguard following two abreast. It had been six long months since the two had set foot in the empire's capital, and they couldn't help but spur their horses on eagerly whilst still half-heartedly trying to ride with the posture and dignity that was customary in public.

"It is, Severus, it is." Octavius beamed, showing off his huge and toothy grin. The day, so far had gone perfectly, and, looking round, to survey the scene, he felt his spirit soar.

Overhead the late morning sun warmed Nirn in a cloudless, blue sky, and the Rumare and the surrounding basin's colours were as true and vivid to his memory as ever they were. Both his and Flaccus' armour shone blindingly in the daylight, the two of them having polished the steel and brass themselves for hours by the fireside the night before, telling jokes and talking of what they were going to do when they finally had a chance for some rest.

Even with a small army of squires they had spent a full hour putting everything on in the early hours of the morning, taking care not to scratch the handiwork. First the boots and greaves, then the cuirass, followed by the pauldrons, gauntlets and helm, and finished off with their satin, imperial blue capes. Octavius had to admit that, compared to Severus, he did not look nearly as impressive as the general.

Though Severus was a tad over the hill, a slightly podgy man with a belly of particular note, he had been in the Legion nearly all of his life, and he wore his suit of armour like a second skin and was well at ease in it. Octavius was completely the opposite to Severus, being a thin, wiry young man returning from his very first military campaign, and though he had seen his fair share of battle in the six months he had been away, he still felt dwarfed and trapped inside the plates and steel cloth.

He would much rather be wearing the armour of the bodyguard. Contrary to convention, rather than having the standard detachment of heavy imperial cavalry, Octavius had chosen a small band of elite Dunmer lancers from mainland Morrowind. The choice had been a particularly controversial one at that as, they were the Dunmer's most effective means of acquiring slaves by raiding, and considering that general Flaccus had been sent to crush a rebellion in a far-flung area in the province of Elsweyr. People were rightly afraid that the connotations of having such a unit present would not endear the army to the locals.

Each of the eight riders wore the Legion's flexible boiled leather armour with an imperial blue sash resting proudly across their chests which, instead of the imperial dragon, bore the mark of the Dunmer Tribunal, and were armed with not only their four yard, chitin-tipped lances but also a gleaming set of silver daggers, short swords and long swords.

From a military perspective these lancers had proved indispensable, fulfilling a lot more than just the role of babysitting the brass, doubling mostly as the light cavalry that they were, hunting down the Khajiit foot-raiders with their progress definitely enhanced by their fearsome reputation and their knowledge of the land and its inhabitants.

Now they rode proudly behind their two commanders, spears held upright and backs straight, though each man's face belayed their professional manner as they stared in astonishment at the Imperial City. It wasn't without a bit of smugness that Octavius saw the wide eyes and raised brows; back in Elsweyr the elves had been quick to boast of their cities, particularly the two sacred cities of Mournhold and Vivec, and were quite confident in their superiority to anything else in Tamriel, and at the time the prince had bore these comments quietly and humbly. Now it was Octavius' turn to be proud.

Flaccus gave a signal with his right arm as the group neared the gigantic stone walls that encircled the city, and the legionnaires who were manning the gates saluted, and with all their might opened the heavy oak and iron gates to let the victorious band in. Octavius was not surprised to find that there were no cheering crowds waiting for them in the Talos plaza district; Flaccus had chosen to dissolve the way-weary legion at the border of Cyrodiil, with only this small group of cavalry continuing onwards, so the party had arrived a few days earlier than expected. It was a shame that there would be no victory parade for the troops, but Flaccus had noticed a growing discontent during the later weeks of the campaign approaching the harvest season, and had decided it would be in the best interests to disband the fighting force, which, in all honesty, would prefer to be heading home.

The company clattered across the stone flags of the Talos plaza past the large, pleasant looking mansions, and once again Flaccus gave the signal and the guards heaved open another set of doors. Here they were: White Gold tower, the very heart of the Empire towered above them in all its glory, pointing towards the heavens with a divine authority of its own, raising itself proudly to symbolise all the Empire stood for. Everything around it seemed to proudly bear the mark of imperial order that stemmed from the tower, from the neat, well placed rows of flowers to the gold filigree on the armour of the imperial guard who patrolled the area. A mightier place on the whole of Nirn, Octavius couldn't think of. Severus patted him on the back and smiled.

"Nothing beats returning from a campaign to be greeted by this. I only play at war these days so I can spend a few months in a muddy provincial hole then to come back here."

"I can see why Severus. I for one am looking forward to a wash and to sleep in my own bed."

"I couldn't agree more. That, and some good, strong ale, the sooner the better. I really hope that the Council leaves the report until to-"

"Prince Octavius! Prince Octavius!"

The general was cut off as the doors to the palace swung open and from the relative gloom emerged a short figure in a vividly blue robe. Severus' face fell with annoyance and he sighed irritably.

"Oh no…"

The robed man was none other than Chancellor Goromar, the Bosmer representing the Elder Council, and famed throughout Tamriel for having not only a silver spoon up his rear, but an entire imperial silver dining set. He was also all business, which was most probably why Severus reacted in the way he did. Naturally he was right.

"Prince Octavius!" Goromar squeaked excitedly, though at closer inspection Octavius noticed that the Chancellor looked decidedly angry. "You should know better than to bring these filthy animals-" he said, gesturing wildly at the horses, "-into the city, not to mention that you did not bother to inform us of your return, but never mind! I have brilliantly sorted out the entire situation, the Council is seated and ready for your report on the Elsweyr insurrection."

"But we've onl-"

"Enough!" Goromar said with a small, ridiculous stamp of his foot. "You've caused the Council enough indignity already, the Council is seated and-"

"Hello Goromar, it's nice to see you too. How's the wife?" Goromar was caught by surprise as Severus interrupted him, and imperious on his saddle and smiling with more than a hint of insincerity, and knowing full-well, as everyone else did, that the Chancellor's wife was on an 'extended holiday' in Valenwood with an elf who wasn't her husband. The Bosmer's face reddened.

"How…how dare you! You forget your place general! I want you out of my sight now! The Prince will brief the Council on his own." The seething Chancellor turned his back on the two of them and began to walk back towards the open doors of the palace.

"Come, Prince Ocvatius. You've wasted enough of the Council's time as it is."

Severus and Octavius sniggered between themselves for a moment, then reluctantly Octavius dismounted. They knew that when Goromar said 'the Council,' he really meant himself.

"I'll see you tonight then."

"Yes, yes! In the meanwhile I'll go and get these nags stabled and make sure our men are set up somewhere nice. The King and Queen Tavern should do, though if I had the money I'd send them to the hotel."

"You mean you're paying out of your own pocket?"

"Unfortunately I am. They're not Legion members, so the Council refuse to accommodate them with their funds."

"I smell Goromar through and through, the little fetch-" Octavius refrained from completing the word. Amongst other things, he had unwittingly started using the Dunmer's curses in the field, and he realised that it was best to try and halt his own usage of it now before he found himself in more serious company. "Well, I had better be going now," said Octavius, seeing the Chancellor waiting impatiently at the door."

"Pah! Oblivion take him. Let him stew."

"I'm sure my father wouldn't approve."

"I'm sure the Emperor knows best," Severus said with a laugh. "Well then, be off with you!" With a salute, Severus turned his horse about to join the lancers who immediately engaged the general in enthusiastic conversation, and they trotted off down through the gates that they had come through. The clatter of horses hooves resounded loudly around the city walls, and only faded once the palace doors had been closed behind Octavius.

"Come, Prince Octavius," Goromar said sharply as he gestured through the open door leading into the Council chambers. Octavius felt a growing sense of dread; he didn't like talking with the Council, and the realisation that he had been given no time to prepare made him all the more jittery.

"I wish I was back in Elsweyr."


End file.
